Gone In The Morning
by MyNameIsM
Summary: Sex with Jim, Molly decided, was difficult to describe. Jim/Dark!Molly with a hint of something else.


_A/N: I don't even know where this came from, I was just having a lot of Molly Hooper feels tonight. So yeah, I guess this could be classed as dark!Molly? I dunno. So yeah, please review and I really hope that everyone is in character. I've just got into Sherlock in a major way, so I'll probably be writing more soon. _

_/;/;/;/_

Sex with Jim, Molly decided, was difficult to describe.

Gentle was not right, not that he was violent or cruel. Superficially, she supposed, his actions were of a gentle nature. He moved softly, slowly, a quick light brush of cold white on sweating red. He went no further than he thought she'd allow, as if he thought there was such a line to cross, and sometimes, only sometimes, when he was done, he allowed her to hold him as she never got to do in the daylight hours, to simply feel his breath on her skin and the light caress of those long fingers over her exposed hip.

But, contrary to popular belief, she was not an idiot. Acting a fool was always useful to her, and she wasn't going to deny that some of the naivety, the optimistic nature, was actually her own. But she was not completely clueless. Jim didn't push her boundaries because he didn't want them pushed. He went softly because he knew, as giddy and romantic as she was in public, this is how she enjoyed her private life. In short, he did what she wanted, for reasons entirely unknown.

Then what exactly did Jim want? Why did he allow the final step in these minor entanglements, so few and randomly occurring throughout the month?

Why did he want to be held, if he didn't want to be held by her?

This was the question she pondered as she lay in bed, alone for the moment. Jim had promised her he would come home tonight, and she did not doubt it. She rarely did, but this went beyond her normal faith in her lover, her saviour, her beautiful corrupter. This time, she knew, because of the way he had said it. It wasn't so much a promise on his part, as an order on hers. Tonight was special. Tonight was a night where Jim wanted it too, all of her (or maybe he needed it?)

_And what Jimmy wants, Jimmy gets_.

With that thought, she smiled and turned over, but the question returned to her in a different form.

Where did nights like this come from? James Moriarty was always cold, distant. She supposed it was the price you paid for God-like intellect. But every so often, coming more frequently as of late, that distant and cold image fell away. There was no mock gentleness, but a ferocity and intensity that gnawed and bit and was so filled with pure _need_ that her heart almost burst and when he was done she was _always_ allowed to hold him.

She loved Jim with all her heart and soul, and she showed it every way she could. With him, there was no act, no cutesy cat-loving-floral-patterned push over. Jim saw her all day, every day. But it was only on these nights, these brief moments of lust, that Molly saw him. He was. . .

_Wild_, she thought. Yes, that was a good word. What was he normally then?

_Methodical._ Hmm. That seemed right. "Being characterized by method or order". Slow, deliberate, soft - but not gentle. Like a computer obtaining data, a scientist studying a subject.

A god toying with his worshippers.

_No_. She shook her head, face displaying her disgust.

Jim loved her, as much as he could love any woman. Of course she couldn't expect something along the lines of a normal relationship all the time. He didn't have the time, the stamina, the right to be human. He had to be divine, a stone of power and incorruptibility if he was going to succeed. This, she realized, is what really made nights like this special. This was not really a night where she could see Jim; this was a night where Jim could _be_ Jim.

And that Jim loved her. That's why she could hold him on nights like this. It had to be. Otherwise. . .

Why?

A creak. In the main hall the door was opening and Molly jumped up instantly, every muscle and sense in her body alert and ready. She knew, however, to wait. He would come to her, and any movement on her part would merely be a nuisance, an obstruction in the path he already planned to follow.

_Method, _she thought. But wasn't this the wild time. . .? And then he was in the room and she shut away such thoughts instantly.

This was James' night, not hers.

He did not say hello. He didn't say anything at all. His goal was removing his clothing, as slowly as he could so as to still seem in control of his actions, but she saw the slight tremors, present to the loving and watching eye. He was waiting, she knew, for her line of dialogue in this little act, and she only hesitated a moment (_method) _before happily reciting it.

"If you like, I could do it for you."

There. It wasn't as perfect as she would have liked, but it seemed suitable. The words, she felt, didn't really matter on nights like this. It was the challenge, the arrogance, the pissing match attitude that he was looking for. Eloquence was merely a bonus point.

Why?

But his clothes were off and he was up and the thought had no time to continue.

_/;/;/;/_

He would be gone in the morning. He was always gone in the morning, because nights like this demanded it. He would also not speak to or see her for a few days, as if he was disgusted with himself. Whether for her actions or for his, she could never really tell. She guessed that it was a combination of the reasoning, however, was difficult to even guess. There were, she decided, cleaning herself in bed, two possible reasons. One she wanted to believe - no, the one she firmly believed - and one she did not:

James Moriarty loved her. He loved her beyond what he was allowed to as a leader, and he was embarrassed by how much of himself he allowed to be viewed, how disgustingly and disturbingly human he acted. He didn't want to know what she, his most loyal lieutenant, could possibly think of him after a night like that.

_Or:_

Jim loved someone. He loved that certain someone beyond what he was allowed to as a professional, and he was appalled by how much of himself he allowed to be viewed, how disgustingly and disturbingly filled with love and need he was. He didn't want her, his most loyal follower, his least challenging opponent, but she was all that was available to him and if he did not at least have her he would go mad.

Perhaps, when there was nothing left you burn, you had to set yourself on fire.


End file.
